I once beckoned
words home. A maple
filled up the window,
and down in the yard
two people
looked up
at each other’s hair.
So spring is like a bicycle,
a whoosh in the ears,
what the wind makes the eyes water,
the ditches that still beckon
children returning from school.
I once beckoned words home
and they stayed.
They are like a house full of socks,
dirty and clean and warm.
When I peek into the sky
through the blinds
I see an airplane’s contrail.